


Some Observations on the Clinical Effects of a Localised Explosion

by Temaris



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, M/M, Masturbation, mmom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temaris/pseuds/Temaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking notes is easier than facing facts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Observations on the Clinical Effects of a Localised Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks for the beta that Alyse gave. Spoilers for episode 2:12, the Man in the Cell.

He was fine.

It was a pity about Catherine Epps, but he was fine. Apart from his back and hips and side where Agent Booth had yanked him backwards over the table he'd upended. Not that a trestle made from thin wood should have done much to protect them but.

Zack looked at his hands. They were red and sore, as though they'd had an acid bath -- a base bath in ammonia. It would make a neat sort of sense if that were it, but no, they were scorched from the bomb. Fine. Good.

He looked at his hands some more. He could have lost them. He hadn't known what that click was when he lifted the poison -- it was good that they'd been able to identify the poison, he liked Cam. He hadn't known and if it hadn't been for Agent Booth standing close enough to stop him.

Boom.

No more Zack.

Absently he began calculating the probable range of injuries from an unmediated blast of that scale. Immediate proximity; low yield. Definitely his hands would have gone. Probably his face and torso too, as the explosion shaped itself up the funnel of his arms. The arms might not come off -- the dorsal muscles were strong and would be largely untouched, but probable dislocation. The rib cage would be badly fragmented. Depending on the shape of the blast, possibly even the sternum would be split and considerable hinging. It was difficult to see how he might live through something like that, but it couldn't be discounted. He wouldn't be a forensic anthropologist any more. With that amount of damage, death would be the cleaner outcome.

He wondered if Doctor Brennan would have made the formal identification. It would be oddly perfect, to begin and end his career in forensic anthropology with boiled bones in Doctor Brennan's swift, certain hands.

And all this, he observed silently, just to pretend that he wasn't thinking about something else entirely.

Perhaps it was gruesome or warped, or any of the other things that his fellow graduate students had said of him, that he preferred to think about the near miss, about the clinical possibilities, about his own bones, stripped and laid out in the crisp clean environment of the Jeffersonian. More bones. Rather bones than what kept sliding back into his mind, distracting and confusing him. Easier to be clinical about it than think of the fear, the blinding, gut deep cold that flashed through him somewhere between the word bomb, and the moment they threw themselves to safety.

It would have been hard to do that for Agent Booth. Though _he_ would have known better than to just lift the bag of poison from a booby-trapped body. He wouldn't have had to be rescued in the first place. He paused, eyes closed in belated embarrassment. Still. Agent Booth had been very good about it. He hadn't said anything to Zack. Their bond continued, undamaged.

Which was more than Booth would have been if the worst had happened, and he winced. Was this the reaction he should have had for himself? The thought of Booth flayed open, ribs spread and arms wrenched half out their sockets, face obliterated, hands burnt and blown away was … unpleasant.

Very unpleasant. _So why think about it?_ demanded that small part of his brain that was determinedly trying to convince him to do something about the persistent sense memory of Agent Booth (Seeley, a traitorous thought insisted) of _Agent Booth_ 's body against his. The hand covering his hands, holding him still. The firm grip on his hips. The tight press of that warm muscle and bone, firm and male and smelling unbearably distracting against his back.

He groaned and tried to check his thoughts. If it wasn't appropriate to fantasize about (and especially not talk about!) Doctor Brennan, well, surely it was the more inappropriate for Agent Booth? A good man. A man with a son and a string of women lovers. A straight man.

Zack rolled over and groaned into his pillows. He was never, ever, ever going to get to sleep. He'd almost rather have not been saved. As long as he could keep substituting the word 'bond' for crush or attraction or creepy stalker vibes, or any of the other less than flattering phrases those he had indicated his interest in over the years had bestowed in return, he could keep it under control.

He slid a hand reluctantly down between him and the sheet until he had a firm grip on his penis. "Perfectly natural bodily function," he mumbled to himself, rubbing briskly. His hips jerked into the mattress and he lifted his head, startled. He didn't usually get involuntary movements. Perhaps a little at the moment of ejaculation and -- he firmly put it out of his mind. If he started thinking about the mechanics he'd never finish. Or maybe he would -- it had been a very persistent erection.

Agent Booth -- Seeley -- had smelled *good*. Empirically speaking, pheromones, shampoo, soap, possible cologne or aftershave were the details, but he pushed that back, finding the moment when he'd lain underneath Seeley -- Agent Booth -- solid muscle pinning him, adrenaline pumping through, heightening every sense, imprinting the smell, the smooth fabric of Seeley's jacket, the hard surge of his chest against Zack's as they gasped for air. One of Seeley's arms still wrapped around his hips.

Just for a split second. Maybe three or four. The flames dwindled. They didn't have to breathe each other's air. Seeley pulled away.

Zack gasped again, as though all the oxygen in the air was burned out a second time, his hips jerking hard, once, twice. "Fuck!" he swore, then blushed. "Sorry," he apologised though there was no one there to apologise to. He squeezed his eyes closed. He would have to work with Seel-- Agent Booth.

He'd keep back for a while. Focus on the work at hand, not at what he'd just done, fantasising about--

He fell asleep still dreaming.


End file.
